ceiling fan cycles
digesting the miles, thinking
"this is what highways really sound like"
a machine that
siphons while i sleep, mornings
met with something missing
between the linoleum and
remembering what i dreamed.

in the drain next to
your house, we followed
our flashlights, looking for ways
to feel small, or lost.
the grass reached down to us and
that was enough,
but i heard that sound
from underneath or within,
and you held on to the strap of my bag
while i hunted it.

when we emerged -
a drainfield, marsh grass all around,
a half moon lost
in the late afternoon.
beyond the guardrail, cars passed
like old summers out of my memory,
and you let go.